


Vulnerabilities

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a dangerous game he is playing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vulnerabilities

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me while watching the scene of Blackwood's reveal to the order, and I just ran with it. Oh, and because Coward goes with anyone

Standish settled into his chair with the heartfelt sigh of the utterly exhausted. It had been another long meeting that accomplished almost nothing, and now he had another, more private meeting. He knew what would come of this meeting as well; nothing. He nodded to Sir Thomas, who passed him a drink. He raised it in a weary toast, and said, "I don't know what we can do about Blackwood. He's quickly becoming a real problem. We should have acted sooner; now we can only attempt to undo the damage."

Sir Thomas sighed into his own glass. "He is. His rise has been so fast, so unexpected that it caught us off guard. I had thought it would just appeal to a few of the younger, more reckless members, but his influence is growing daily…"

There is a quiet, polite knock at the door, and Standish turned to Sir Thomas with a raised eyebrow. Sir Thomas motioned him to silence. "Enter," he called.

Standish struggled to remember the slender young man who entered, and then recognition came to him. Lord Coward. One of the youngest members, influential among his group, with a surprising amount of power. He handled it well, holding his own against more imposing members, and Standish could respect him for that.

"My Lords," he says, low, and there might have been the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice.

"Lord Coward," Sir Thomas acknowledged him, and then, "What is it?"

"I… I wished to speak with you, Sir."

"And it could not have been dealt with at the meeting?"

There's the faintest flush in those pale cheeks, and when Coward speaks, it is barely above a whisper. "I – I was hoping for a more, private, audience." His eyes close momentarily, something fragile flitting across his face. "Please."

Sir Thomas regards him, hands laced across his ample chest. Standish doesn't know enough about Lord Coward to judge his actions, but this is most peculiar. He starts to rise, drawing both their eyes.

"Perhaps I should leave…" and lets the sentence trail off at the narrowing of Sir Thomas' eyes. Sir Thomas's gaze stays on him as he speaks.

"Do you have an objection to Ambassador Standish's presence?"

Coward blinks, and his response is hesitant. "No… no. It might be for the best that he hear me now."

They turn their eyes to him then, and he stiffens under their regard. He is elegant, Standish will admit, but he doesn't care for such hesitancy in someone who should be accustomed to a commanding position.

"Very well. State your issue."

Coward opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He flushes, and clears his throat. "It's about Lord Blackwood, Sir Thomas."

Standish tenses, but Sir Thomas merely nods for him to continue.

Coward swallows, his hands rising unconsciously to pluck at his waistcoat, before he clasps them firmly behind his back. "I, I am certain you are aware of his… more questionable pursuits into 'practical magic'." He pauses, and Sir Thomas nods again.

"We have been keeping an eye on his proclivities."

"You have not made a move against him." It is not quite a question, not quite an accusation. Standish speaks for them both.

"We haven't the proof needed to move. While we suspect his powers, there remains no tangible link." He is caught by Coward's eyes, pale, pale against his skin.

"I can give you proof," Coward whispers, and Sir Thomas snaps at him; "How?"

Coward breaks that gaze, and turns his eyes to Sir Thomas. "Because I have been at his rituals. I have been, and have seen, and now I come to you. All I ask is that you give me protection."

Sir Thomas draws a heavy breath, and even as Standish demands "Why?", he speaks.

"Explain."

Coward's breath catches and he speaks in a tone that is just shy of pleading, edging into ashamed. "I am not patient," he says. "Blackwood offered me a chance to move forward more quickly than the Order. Now, I can see the foolishness of such an act, but then… you have seen him. He is practically aglow with power. It is blinding, to look at him, and it is easy, too easy, to feel compelled to follow his orders. I was drawn in, willingly, and he kept a firm hold on me." He spreads his shaking hands before him, an entreaty, but Sir Thomas is unmoved.

"Why should we believe your words? Or consider your actions your own? You have admitted to dabbling in the dark arts; that alone is enough to remove you from the order."

Coward stumbles forward a step; "Please," he says, harsh. "I have paid for my mistakes, paid and paid again. Grant me some mercy." His eyes are wild, his elegance distorted by fear, and Standish cannot not be moved by him.

"Paid?" he says, and Coward whips his head to him, those eyes slicing him open. Shaking hands come up to fumble at his waistcoat, stuttering over the buttons.

"I can show you," he says, and Sir Thomas's protest fails to register.

The waistcoat is off, and the stark shirt half unbuttoned before Standish catches the first sign of something amiss. Coward speaks as he works buttons through stubborn holes. "His rituals are powerful; they produce staggering results. But the price is staggering as well. The things he does, the things he does to others… I begin to think that people are no more than tools to him. He has participated in the most bloody, most foul, most perverted of rites, and has been answered; answered by beings that revel in such things." His shirt gapes open now, and there is a red mark on his chest, a hand shaped brand, livid against his skin. He shrugs the shirt off, and turns from them, presenting them with a living canvas of horror. Standish draws his breath at the sight, and even Sir Thomas looks pale.

Standish rises, and walks forward, his eyes trained on Coward's back. It is covered with welts, mottled with bruises, and etched with familiar but twisted symbols, outlined in deep, surgical slices. There is no patch of skin unmarked, and Standish thinks it must be agony to bear even the lightest of fabrics against it. His eyes catch on another mark, curving around the juncture of neck and shoulder, and his hand comes up to brush the swollen bite. He can feel Coward trembling beneath his fingers, and Coward answers the unspoken question.

"Yes. That too."

The thought of this young man, this elegantly formed creature, branded and beaten and marked at the hands of Lord Blackwood, brutally penetrated over alters in the name of power, causes bile to rise in his throat. That Blackwood would be so careless of such a man, so callous…

"What can you give us?" Sir Thomas's voice returns Standish to this moment, and he drops his hand, stepping back. Coward turns to them, shirt hanging from his fingers, and answers.

"Everything you need. Blackwood…" He swallows, his voice dancing on the edge of tears. "He trusts me. Utterly. I can give you whatever you need to know to bring him down."

"And if we ask you to stay? To continue gathering information?"

Standish is shocked at the dismay such words bring him, but Coward merely blinks. "Then I will do that."

"Good."

 

*

 

They leave, hours later, far into the night, having hashed out a plan. Coward will meet with Standish to pass on information; Standish will pretend to be interested in Blackwood's methods. They stand outside the doors of Sir Thomas's office, and Standish watches the tension in Coward's movements.

"Have you seen a doctor?" he asks, and Coward gives him a surprised glance.

Coward laughs, a sickened mockery of the sound. "Who would I dare go to?"

Standish is appalled. "Then what have you done for them? They cannot go untreated, and I doubt you can tend the worst of them."

Coward's lips twist. "I have done nothing." He catches the expression on Standish's face, and shrugs – or begins to, then stills with a caught breath. "It is not the first time."

"But it will be the last time," he replies, and "Come with me. Surely I can assist you with some salve, at the very least." Coward hesitates, and he adds "Please. It will ease my mind."

Coward gives in, and follows him through the corridors to his rooms. It takes him a moment to remember where the remains of the salve from his last slight injury is, and when he turns back around Coward has removed his shirt again. The marks are even uglier than before, he thinks, and he itches with anger at the sight of them. He hesitates, jar in hand, and asks, "Would you prefer to lie down?"

Coward looks at him, and there is something so vulnerable in his eyes that Standish finds he cannot quite meet them. Coward doesn't reply, but settles himself face down on the sitting room sofa. Standish knees beside him and spreads the aromatic paste over each barely scabbed line, each shaded bruise, his hand lingering on the puffy bite. Coward shivers beneath his hands, and then goes limp, the tightly wound tension going out of him with a gasp of relief. He turns his head, lidded eyes meeting Standish's. "Thank you," he says, his voice drowsy, and Standish fights the overwhelming, utterly insane urge to kiss him.

"You're welcome," he says instead. "You are welcome to sleep here if you wish; you look about to pass out."

Coward smiles, an expression so heartstoppingly sweet that Standish almost gives in, and those early morning sky eyes close.

 

*

 

Standish resists kissing him only until their second meeting. Coward is shaken, his face very pale, describing the latest atrocities. Standish listens, and makes notes, and tries to keep a lid on his growing rage.

Coward bites his lip when he sits, and Standish finds himself griping his pen too tightly. "Stop," he says, and Coward's words die as he looks to Standish with apprehension. "How bad?" he asks, and Coward flushes. Standish closes his eyes, then stands and turns to the desk, where he has left the salve from last time. He can feel Coward's eyes on him, but he can offer no fully rational explanation. He's no longer sure if he is wholly in control of his actions, but it is hard to care.

"Lie down. Let me help, and then you can report."

Coward obeys, and when he starts speaking again as Standish smoothes ointment across even more marks, Standish does not quiet him. He listens, and tries not to let his anger reach his hands. When Coward at last falls silent, Standish had long since finished tending his back, but remains seated beside him. Standish is silent, and then, "I will find some way to convince Sir Thomas that you shouldn't go back," he says, and turns his face to Coward's.

"I have to," Coward whispers. "There is no one else."

Standish cannot bear to hear that from him, and he lets his head fall forward, pressing their foreheads together, lips not quite brushing. "But I wish there was," and he is kissing him, as slow and sweet and gentle as he can, despite everything he knows screaming the danger of his acts.

He breaks away, and gasps out, "You don't have to. I didn't mean… I will not force you; it is your decision. Say no, and I promise you, nothing will change."

Coward stops his words quite effectively.

 

*

 

Sometimes their meetings end in nothing more than drinks and passing out on sofas or beds or floors, weighed down by exhaustion, having pushed their bodies to the limits every day. Sometimes there are hours of slow, careful kisses and caresses, of falling asleep wrapped around one another. Sometimes, other times, a meeting will end in the bedroom, Standish desperate to be careful, shaking with the need to be gentle with this gift he has been given. Coward alternates in reaction, sometimes rising to meet him, sweet and slow and sure, every move exquisite and every sound rapturous; sometimes fighting his rhythm, desperate for something harder, something harsher, and Standish fights back, unwilling to let himself be turned into Blackwood. Coward is so needy, and it pulls at Standish, the way he lights up at the slightest praise, goes still and silent at a harsh word. Blackwood has left more marks than those that are physical.

It is a dangerous game he is playing; but when Coward has fallen asleep in his arms again, Standish thinks he does not care. He has tried so hard to remain wary, cautious, and pretends not to acknowledge that he has fallen; fallen hard, and it will probably destroy him.

 

*

 

A meeting has been called, at an unlikely time, and no one he speaks to knows anything. He cannot find Coward, but he shouldn't be trying to contact him during the day anyhow.

He is the last to arrive, and that is a surprise. Another surprise is Coward, standing at the head of the circle, and his announcement is nothing short of insanity.

"Sir Thomas is dead. I nominate Lord Blackwood as head of the Order."

Coward is wearing a smile Standish has never seen before, and he wonders if this is some ploy, some game that Coward couldn't get out of. He looks for some sign to tell him that this is coerced, and doesn't find it.

"Have you lost your mind? You know damn well what he's capable of."

There is a voice from the shadows, ringing, "Of course he does. That's why he's here," but Standish's eyes can't leave Coward, who gives him a look bordering on amusement, and turns away.

Blackwood's words draw his eyes, and he can only listen in dumfounded amazement at the man's arrogance. His eyes slide back to Coward, but Coward is watching Blackwood, an unfamiliar look on his face.

Blackwood walks across the circle, still speaking, and pauses at Coward, standing before the Order's seat of power. He curls one hand against Coward's cheek, and there, before every member, kisses him, a hungry, possessive kiss, and when he pulls back Standish can read Coward's expression all too well; worship. No one has made a sound, nor moved an inch, nor even thought of stopping him, and Standish's heart sinks. He has been a fool, he thinks.

Blackwood is going on about retaking the colonies, and Standish almost laughs at the thought. It will never happen, even with all the magic in the world. He wonders what the real Coward is like, if he saw even a hint of the man behind the masks used to play them so thoroughly. He should have known better from the very start; anyone who could gasp and hold such a high position at such a young age was no fool, no weak man to be used. As he had been used.

"These men are with me. Are you?"

He doesn't have to think. "No sir, I am not," and Coward stirs at his words. Did he think he could draw him in? Could it possibly be that there was some fellow feeling there?

It didn't matter. "These powers you are playing with, no man can control," and it is warning as well as fact. "Well, gentlemen, someone has to stop him, even if you won't." He never goes out unprepared, and the gun is in his hand already. Blackwood has the arrogance to turn away, mocking him, and he fires.

 

*

 

The meeting is over, the last member gone, frightened mice scurrying for cover, the aroma of scorched flesh tainting the air. Blackwood is seated on the orders' grand chair, Coward straddling his lap. "Well done," he tells Blackwood between lazy kisses, his lips curving in a smile just short of a smirk. Blackwood slides cool hands up his shirt, settling on marred skin, and Coward shudders in pleasure.

"Your plans remain pure genius," Blackwood whispers, and Coward rewards him with another kiss for the compliment. He spares a thought for Standish; it was a shame he had to do away with him, but his death would serve a higher purpose. He curls into Blackwood; "Come," he says, breathless with anticipation. "Let us find a use for your knife again."


End file.
